


To Lasso the Moon

by TheBarkeep



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, General Ennui, It's A Wonderful Life AU, Jack Kelly is Frustrated, M/M, Maybe There's a Fun Twist, Other, Pulitzer is a Crappy Father-In-Law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBarkeep/pseuds/TheBarkeep
Summary: Race should have known better than to bring up Joseph Pulitzer. Oh, yes, Pulitzer had offered Jack that cushy position as a political cartoonist; and, all right, he’d looked the other way when Jack and Katherine had started spending time together. But Pulitzer had drawn his line in the sand when Jack and Katherine announced their engagement. He did everything he could to stop the marriage; he threatened Jack’s job and Katherine’s trust fund and any connection to her family. Even though it broke his heart, Jack had tried to offer Katherine an out then. He didn’t want her to suffer or go without on his account. But Katherine had insisted her father was bluffing, and that even if he wasn’t, she’d rather face the world with Jack than remain beholden to Joseph Pulitzer.Pulitzer hadn’t been bluffing....or, how Jack undervalues himself tremendously and has to learn the hard way that he does, in fact, matter. Nothing says Christmas like a good existential crisis!
Relationships: Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 47
Kudos: 19





	1. Enter Mo

**Author's Note:**

> If you've ever seen "It's a Wonderful Life," you know the general trajectory of this story. The angst will totally pay off in the end, but not before I drag a whole bunch of characters through some rough situations. Because it's Christmas, and at Christmas, you tug at the heart strings. 
> 
> Please be advised that there is a quick reference to suicidal ideation in this chapter (which, again, this AU couldn't function without). But my angel is even cuter than Clarence. ;-)

**_December 24, 1906_ **

Jack Kelly was tired of being tired. He was tired of the cold and the damp; he was tired of lifting and carrying; he was tired of the aches and pains that gnawed at his joints and muscles even after his shift was done. He should have known what the docks would do to him; he’d seen what they did to his old man. But Jack had never expected to end up lugging cargo to make ends meet. His dreams had always been bigger, and he’d been so sure—but now he knew better. When a man had mouths to feed, dreams didn’t matter so much. But the ache of those lost dreams was just as keen as the pain that radiated through his shoulders and back.

“Hell of a long day, huh, cowboy?” Jack heard Racetrack’s voice behind him, and he sounded every inch as exhausted as Jack felt. Jack grunted in return, and Race fell into step beside him. Jack could remember when Race was so lean that a strong wind might blow him over. His own years on the docks had taken care of that, erasing any trace of Race’s lankiness and replacing it with layers of gnarled muscle. Race and Spot were easily the most physically intimidating couple Jack had ever seen, which he figured was helpful given the controversy their relationship was apt to cause. They didn’t walk down the street hand in hand, but they could have—no one would be stupid enough to think they could challenge those two and come out alive.

“What do you guys have goin’ for Christmas?” Jack asked, turning the lapels of his coat up against the cold. The bite in the air drove the two men forward, but their tread was heavy.

“Spotty said he was gonna make it ‘festive,’” Race said. He shifted his neck back and forth, and there were audible pops as air hissed out from between his bones. “That prob’ly means some chop suey and whiskey. God, and _bed._ I really hope it includes bed.”

Jack snorted, and the sound came out in a cloud of icy vapor. “Does Spot usually make things ‘festive’ in bed?”

“Didn’t know you was so interested, Jackie,” Race said with a roll of his eyes. “You’se welcome to come and watch anytime.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Race chuckled a little. “What about you and the missus, eh?”

Jack winked at him. “Well, I ain’t sure what we’ll get up to in bed—”

“—Christ, Jack—”

“—but we ain’t doin’ much this year. Things’ve been tight lately.” He cracked his knuckles with a groan.

Race nodded. “Yeah, I know how that goes. Me and Spot didn’t even have the cash for a tree this year. Which I guess is okay, since Bushwick usually climbs the damn tree and eats all the tinsel. Damn cat shits silver for a week after Christmas.”

“So at least you got that goin’ for you,” Jack replied. 

“Yeah,” Race agreed. “What about your kiddos?”

Jack sighed. He’d hoped Race wouldn’t ask. “Gracie’s too little to know that anythin’ is supposed to happen, but poor Mikey. He’s been yappin’ non-stop about Santa for the last two weeks, and I ain’t had the heart to talk ‘im out of it.”

“You mean…you ain’t got nothin’ for ‘em?” Jack could tell that Race regretted the words as soon as he said them; the younger man was practically chewing through his own lip. 

Jack shrugged. “Couple’a little things. You know. Kath got ‘em oranges and made ‘em some new socks—the way she knits, you could prob’ly fit all four a’ their feet in one. But Mikey really wants one of them new train sets.” He looked at his hands; an ugly assortment of cuts and callouses stared back.

“Ah,” Race said. He knew that Michael may as well have asked for Jack to lasso the moon. 

Jack nodded miserably. “He even wrote a letter to Santa askin’ for it. An’ I don’t know what to do. Havin’ a roof over your head prob’ly doesn’t seem like a much of a present to a kid, and I can’t even hardly afford that right now—he’s gonna be so disappointed. An’ he should be. His old man can’t even get him a stupid toy for Christmas. Some dad I am, huh?”

Race hesitated for a moment. “You… uh, you thought ‘bout tryin’ to talk with Joe again?”

Jack’s face darkened at the mention of his father-in-law. “Nah. The thing ‘bout bein’ cut off is that it’s pretty well permanent. ‘Specially when it’s a guy like Joe what does it.”

Race grimaced, but Jack didn’t care. Race should have known better than to bring up Joseph Pulitzer. Oh, yes, Pulitzer had offered Jack that cushy position as a political cartoonist; and, all right, he’d looked the other way when Jack and Katherine had started spending time together. But Pulitzer had drawn his line in the sand when Jack and Katherine announced their engagement. He did everything he could to stop the marriage; he threatened Jack’s job and Katherine’s trust fund and any connection to her family. Even though it broke his heart, Jack had tried to offer Katherine an out then. He didn’t want her to suffer or go without on his account. But Katherine had insisted her father was bluffing, and that even if he wasn’t, she’d rather face the world with Jack than remain beholden to Joseph Pulitzer.

Pulitzer hadn’t been bluffing. He had fired Jack and destroyed any shred of credibility Katherine had as a reporter, and Jack was sure that the newspaper magnate got some kind of perverse pleasure knowing that they barely had two nickels to rub together. He wouldn’t even let Katherine’s mother attend to her when she’d had Michael or Grace; no one had even sent a note of congratulations.

Pulitzer was the reason Jack’s hands could barely hold a pen at the end of the day. Pulitzer was the reason that Katherine haunted their dingy apartment, nursing the silent fear that she was just another invisible woman. Pulitzer was the reason that Jack and Katherine sometimes went without food themselves so that Michael and Grace wouldn’t know hunger. Pulitzer was the reason that there were no Christmas presents and that making the rent was never a sure bet. Jack had vivid fantasies of what he would do if he ever got his hands on the man—and none of them involved a heart-to-heart.

No, he definitely had _not_ thought about trying to talk to his father-in-law.

“Sorry, Jacky, I—”

“He ain’t never even seen his grandkids; I don’t think he’s gonna care so much about if Mikey gets a goddamn toy train,” Jack snarled. Out of habit, he rolled his shoulder and winced as the joint stuttered. 

“I got it,” Race replied. He held up his hands in defeat. “I just—Jacky, you’d let me and Spot know if you need anything?”

Jack scoffed. “Oh, sure. You got a nest egg I ain’t heard about?”

Race shook his head. “Nah. But you always been there for us. We’d be there for you too. Maybe we ain’t got what it takes to get Mikey that train—but we’ll do whatever we can if ya need somethin’. An’ I know the other guys would do the same.”

“Yeah. Davey’d love that—hey pal, I know you’re payin’ for law school and all, but buy my kid a train?” Jack said, his voice bitter. “Or Crutchie? He’d—”

“Awright, awright. I didn’t mean nothin’. Just—you got friends. Don’t forget it.” Race dragged his chapped hands over his face in frustration, and Jack knew he’d pushed too hard. Race had just been trying to help, and Jack had nearly taken his head off. It seemed he was just as lousy a friend as he was a husband and father.

They had reached the shipyard gate. Race shifted uncomfortably. “Look, I, uh—”

“Yeah, it’s a long trip back to Brooklyn.” He couldn’t look at Race.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Jackie.”

Jack didn’t say anything until Race had already started to walk away. “Merry Christmas, Race.”

***

Jack braced himself as he trooped up the narrow stairway to his apartment. He could hear the litany of his neighbors’ domestic sounds through the thin walls as he climbed. Mrs. Shannahan was berating her drunk husband again; the newlyweds off the landing were invested in a _very_ vocal conjugal exploration; someone was singing an off-key version of “Silent Night” down the hall.

He knew what would be waiting for him in his own apartment. Katherine would be hovering miserably over the stove; five-and-a-half years of marriage and a stubborn run of poverty had not exactly helped her to overcome a lifetime of private chefs nor turned her into an excellent cook, but she did what she could with what little they had. Grace would be waiting patiently for her storybook, her two-year-old face serious and wise beyond her years. Michael would be bouncing in his seat at their warped and dented kitchen table, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, pen in hand—he was the artist in the family now. Tonight, he’d probably be drawing Santa Claus riding on that damn toy train.

Jack knocked softly on the door, three sets of clip-clopping sixteenth notes.

He heard Michael’s gasp from the other side. “Da’s home!” There was a thump and a squeal, and when Jack opened the door, Michael’s arms flew around his knees.

“Da! You’re home!”

Jack reached down to ruffle Michael’s dark hair. “Looks that way, Mikey.”

“Did ya see Santa?” Michael asked. His big hazel eyes were round as saucers, and Jack tried to ignore the way his gut was clenching. “Rory Shanahan said that he don’t come this early, but I bet he does. How else’s he gonna get to everywhere in one night?”

“Mikey, let your father in the door,” Katherine’s voice floated over, predictably, from the stove. She didn’t turn to greet him.

“Sorry,” Michael said, taking a hasty step back. Jack mustered up the strength to wink at him, and the little boy grinned.

“Why don’t you go work on your drawin’, huh?” Jack asked.

Michael nodded and flew back over to the table, where he’d left one of Jack’s castoff pens dripping on a piece of cheap drawing paper.

Grace was already in her flannel night gown, her dark hair wrapped up in white rag curls that stuck out from her head at all angles. She sat in the chair across from Michael, her chubby legs swinging gently back and forth. Her little round cheeks were rosy with the heat from the stove; Jack almost couldn’t bear how badly he wanted to kiss them.

“C’mere, Gracie girl. Come see your Da,” he murmured, coming further into the room. He tossed his lunch pail on the table and knelt down on the floor, opening his arms. Grace obliged, toddling toward him on wobbly feet. He snatched her up, and Grace’s doughy little arms wrapped fast around his neck. “Hiya, baby. Can Da have a kiss?”

Grace nodded solemnly and pressed her tiny pink lips to her father’s cold, stubbled cheek as though it were a very serious responsibility.

Jack stood, holding Grace to his chest. No matter how much he hurt, no matter how tired he was, holding his Gracie girl always felt light and easy. “Thank you, my darlin’. Yours are the best kisses in the whole world, you know that?” The little girl smiled shyly, and Jack snuggled her closer, the bumpy knots of her rag curls rolling against his shoulder.

“What about Mama?” Michael asked, looking up from his drawing. He cocked his head at Jack.

Jack stifled a laugh, and Grace nuzzled into his neck. “What _about_ Mama?”

“She gives good kisses too,” Michael replied seriously.

Jack pretended to consider Michael’s words. “Well, I suppose she does.”

“Da! She does! _You_ know!”

“I’d have to compare ‘em to know,” Jack replied. “Mama? You think you could furnish me with a kiss? So’s I can figure out who’s best?”

Katherine looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes at him, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “I wouldn’t want to undermine important research.”

Jack moved toward her, and she turned away from the stovetop to face him. He hooked his free arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. Katherine laid a gentle hand on Grace’s back and let the other one find the back of Jack’s neck. She bridled a little, letting her head fall the slightest bit backward and shaking her thick auburn hair over her shoulders. There was a devilish smile on her face, and Jack saw a flash of Katherine as she had been when they were first together—confident, warm, and absolutely sure of how to drive him wild.

He ducked down to meet her lips, and for a moment, he forgot about everything else. Then Grace’s foot nailed him in the ribs and he pulled away with a start.

“Well, how do I rank?” Katherine asked with another toss of her hair.

“You’re right up there, Mrs. Kelly,” Jack said softly. He leaned back in and let his lips graze her cheek.

Katherine pulled his cap off his head and slapped his rear with it. “Glad to hear it. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Jack nodded as she turned back to the stove. He couldn’t help but notice that, despite her smile, Katherine looked too thin, too pale, too tired. He and Gracie sat down at the table where, sure enough, Michael was hard at work on his rendering of Santa.

“Daddy, c’n Santa fit down a stovepipe?” Michael asked. His brow was furrowed in concentration.

Jack sighed. Why had they ever told Michael about Santa Claus? Jack had never believed, and it probably had saved him the heartache that was creeping toward Michael’s Christmas morning. “Well, I—”

“’Cause he’s fat.”

“That’s true, but—”

“An’ if he’s so fat, he might not fit.”

“He’ll—”

“An’ what about his beard?”

“His beard?”

“What’f it gets on fire?”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, and he felt Grace’s tiny hands gently stroking his hair. “Love Da.”

“Love you too, Gracie girl,” Jack whispered into her little pink ear; she smiled happily. He looked back at his son. “His beard won’t catch fire, Mike.”

Michael nodded eagerly. “Good, ‘cause I can’t wait for my train.”

Katherine dropped the spoon she’d been using to stir their watery soup.

“Kath?”

She shook her head quickly. “Dinner. Let’s eat dinner.”

And they did. They said the blessing and ate in silence, Jack carefully ferrying lukewarm spoonfuls of broth from his spoon to Grace’s mouth and Katherine reminding Michael every few minutes that dinner was not, in fact, a race. Jack caught himself flinching every time Michael said something about trains or Santa, and he saw Katherine draw further into herself as the minutes ticked by. He was relieved when he felt Grace’s head start to nod against his shoulder and saw Michael’s eyelids begin to droop. Katherine took Grace from him and headed toward the bedroom; Jack pulled Michael’s cot from underneath the kitchen table and set him up a cozy nest in front of the stove.

Michael yawned and snuggled into the blanket that Jack tucked around him. “Da?”

“Yeah, Mikey?”

“Will Santa land on me when he comes down the stovepipe?”

Jack leaned down to kiss his son’s forehead. “You’re safe, baby.”

“Mmmkay,” Michael murmured. He rolled over and was instantly asleep. Jack was envious. He knew that sleep was not likely to find him that night.

“Oh, Mikey. I’m so sorry,” Jack whispered.

Katherine had already undressed and was waiting for him in their room. Grace was tucked in close to her mother, thumb safely ensconced in the cupid’s bow of her little lips. Jack couldn’t resist his children when they were asleep. Truthfully, he couldn’t resist them _ever_ , at all, but there was something about their slumbering faces that made his heart ache. They looked so innocent, like the world could never quite touch them—which was really all he wanted for them. Unfortunately, _that_ was harder to deliver than even a toy train. 

He started to undress, watching as Katherine gently stroked Grace’s perfect cheek. She had turned down the gas, and the dim light made her look almost spectral, like Jack’s hand might pass clean through her if he tried to reach out and touch her. She didn’t look at him, but Jack thought he could feel her watching him just the same.

“I wish we could have gotten him that train,” she said.

He slid off his suspenders, trying not to groan. “I know, love. I do too.”

“It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s just a toy,” Katherine said bitterly. “I had so many when I was a little girl.”

Jack blanched. “I’ll bet.” He fingers tore at his button holes. 

She suddenly looked up, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean—”

He shrugged out of his shirt. “No, I know. But this year, Mikey’s got a warm bed and enough in his belly.”

Katherine nodded absently. She didn’t say anything for a moment and fell back to petting Grace. 

Jack unbuttoned his pants and let them drop to the floor. The room was freezing. “I know it don’t seem like much, but…”

Katherine raised the quilt so that he could slide under. “And next year?” she whispered as he shimmied down, Grace between them. 

Jack pulled the blanket up around Grace again, letting his hand rest gently on her tiny shoulder. He sighed. “That’s… well, next year I ain’t as sure about.”

“Will we have enough?”

Jack’s throat creaked out an uncertain sound. He thought for a moment. “I don’t know, achushla. The ice is stopping up traffic pretty bad, and they ain’t thinkin’ that the breaker boats is gonna make much headway with everything stayin’ so cold. It don’t pay to move cargo that never makes it to port.”

“Oh.” She rolled away from them and onto her back.

“Katherine…”

“What if we can’t make rent next month?” she whispered. He could see her fingers clutching at the top of the quilt.

“You let me worry ‘bout that, darlin’.” He reached across Grace and covered her hands with his own.

“But Jack, I—”

When she didn’t meet his eye, Jack knew what was coming next.

“It’s Christmas, Kath. Let’s not.”

“I could try to talk to my father.” She said it as though she were waiting for Jack to slap her, and for the first time in his life, Jack found himself considering it. He pulled his hand away from her, jamming it under his own head.

“No.” His voice was hard.

“But if he knew that—”

“That he was right?” Jack hissed. “That you married a street rat failure who can’t keep you safe and—”

Katherine let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s _not_ what I meant.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Jack mumbled. His head started to pound. 

“Jack—” Katherine reached for him, and he jerked away. Grace stirred and let out a little whine.

“I’m sorry I ain’t done enough for you lately, _Miss Pulitzer_ ,” he whispered furiously. “I’m _sorry_ that breakin’ my back on the docks ain’t keepin’ you in the style to which you’se been _accustomed_. But you knew when you married me you wasn’t signin’ on for no pleasure cruise. And your father—”

“Stop it,” Katherine whispered back, pulling Grace close to her. The little girl’s eyes started to flutter. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Maybe it’d be better for you if I just disappeared. Then your father could just sweep in and take care a’ everything.”

And as he said, it occurred to him that it wasn’t such a bad idea. He looked at Katherine’s face in the dim light, and he could see tears pooling in her eyes. There had been a time when he couldn’t have imagined making Katherine cry; she was too strong, and he couldn’t bear to hurt her. But here they were. And it wasn’t about toy trains or next month’s rent. He couldn’t protect her; he couldn’t protect Grace or Michael, and he was sure Katherine knew it. Katherine had given up everything for him, and he’d given her exactly nothing back. It was more than he could bear.

“I’m goin’ out,” he said. “I need to clear my head.”

“Jack, please.”

“I need to think, I said.” He got out of bed.

“When will you be back?”

He looked back at his wife and daughter. Grace had snuggled against Katherine’s chest, and her little mouth was hanging open, just the slightest bit; Katherine was looking back at him, tears tangled in her eyelashes.

“I dunno.”

“I love you, Jack,” she said desperately. “Remember that.”

Jack looked away. “I love you too.” And he did. Enough to do what he had to. He hoped.

He dressed again and was gone.

***

He’d wandered the streets without realizing where he was going, and of course, he’d ended up back at the docks. His body barely knew how to find any other place in the city anymore. Home to the docks, the docks to home, it was the same every damn day. And none of it mattered, none of it. He still couldn’t do what he was supposed to.

He wondered if he’d be able to now.

Jack stared at the choppy black river and let his mind dive in. He’d long heard that drowning was the most peaceful way to die—but whoever had said that probably hadn’t thrown themselves into the Hudson in December. He could imagine the painful shock of the ice cold water, the way that the chill would slice into his chest and rob him of his breath. The wake would swallow him up, and he would disappear into the depths of the harbor, and no one would miss him, not really. Maybe there would be a few tears, but he knew Katherine would understand. She had to. If she could just let him go, Katherine and the children would finally be free. Pulitzer would take them back; Jack knew he would. They would have everything they deserved but he hadn’t been able to give them. And maybe Jack would find his own kind of freedom, although he wasn’t sure about playing those odds.

The wind buffeted him from behind, and Jack pitched forward, bracing himself just before he fell in to the churning water. His stomach lurched into his throat, and the bitter taste of adrenaline pricked at his tongue. Why had he stopped himself? He could do it. Couldn’t he? He eyed the river warily.

There was a low whistle behind him. “Hey, mister. I wouldn’t if I was you.”

Jack spun around. Of course, he couldn’t even get through _thinking_ about killing himself without an interruption. Behind him was a sandy-haired kid, not much bigger than his own little boy. The boy blinked up at Jack with enormous brown eyes. There was something familiar about him, but Jack didn’t have the capacity to sort that out at present.

“Wha—”

The kid shook his head, his freckled nose wrinkling in distaste. “It’s awful cold. Ain’t a good time to go for a swim.”

A swim? What did the kid take him for? What the hell was this kid doing out here alone anyway? Where were his coat and hat? Jesus, it had to be thirty degrees outside. Jack stared at him, open-mouthed. 

“You all right, mister?” the kid asked. He took a step closer. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should si’down.”

Jack did sit, or at least rested, leaning against one of the dock posts. His eyes darted back and forth, but no one else was there to see what he was seeing. The kid nodded. “That’s better, huh?”

“Uh, kid—”

“Mo,” the kid said. He moved forward and extended his little hand to Jack. “My name’s—well, people call me Mo.”

Jack found himself solemnly shaking the kid’s impossibly warm hand and wondering if he wasn’t actually losing his mind.

Mo looked at him curiously. “I think this is the part where you tell me your name, mister.”

“Kelly. Jack Kelly,” Jack murmured. Because it was entirely normal for a grown man to be making introductions to a child who was out alone in the middle of the night.

“Hiya, Mr. Kelly.” Mo smiled, and Jack could see there was a big gap where his front teeth should have been. “Why you out here so late?”

Jack shook his head. “Um—I—well, I think I should be askin’ you the same question, Mo.”

“Oh. I got some business,” Mo said. He stuffed his hands in his shallow vest pockets and grinned again. “ _You_ know.”

Jack did not know. He rubbed at his eyes. “Look, kid—Mo, it’s freezin’ out here. Where do you live? Can I take ya home?”

“Nah,” Mo waved him off. “Like I said, I got business. Mr. Kelly?”

Jack nodded.

Mo looked at him, his big brown eyes hard. “You shouldn’t ought to do the thing you was gonna do.”

“I—what?” Jack sputtered.

“I know you wasn’t gonna take a swim. I just said that. _You_ know.”

Why did he keep saying that? At this point, Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever known anything at all. And how on earth could this little kid know what he’d been thinking, what he’d been about to do? His elbows found his knees, and he let his face sink into his hands. He wasn’t even sure that he could cry, but holding his head upright suddenly felt like entirely too much work.

He felt Mo’s little hand on his shoulder. “Hey. It’s all right, Mr. Kelly.”

Jack laughed without looking up. The sound was bitter and hollow. “It ain’t all right. It ain’t never gonna be all right. I wish I’d never been born,” he murmured into his hands.

“Huh,” said Mo. “Maybe that’d help.”

Jack’s head snapped up. “I’m sorry?” 

“You got it, Mr. Kelly.”

“Got what?”

“You ain’t never been born,” Mo said triumphantly. “ _You_ know.”

Jack pushed off of the post and past Mo. “No, I _don’t_ goddamned know!” He started to pace wildly, ignoring the way his shoes slipped against the icy dock.

Mo watched him, and the gap-toothed grin crept back onto his freckled face. “Well, whatcha think? You feel any different?”

Jack groaned. “Why would I—why am I even—gah!”

“Because you ain’t never been born!” Mo giggled. “What’s it feel like?”

“Look, kid—I don’t know what your deal is, but it’s cold. I’m tired. I ain’t feelin’ so good. Why don’t you stop talkin’ crazy and just let me take you home?”

“Can’t go anywhere ‘less you tell me how it feels,” Mo said matter-of-factly. “Somethin’ should feel different.”

Jack threw up his hands in defeat—and then, he noticed. His arms moved with ease; there was no pain in his shoulders. He cautiously moved his neck back and forth, and it was as though he’d oiled his bones a moment before. He looked down at his hands, and the callouses and cuts had disappeared. He closed his right hand into a fist and then let his fingers unfurl—and he felt nothing. He could feel the laugh bubbling up his chest before he heard it escape his mouth.

“What are you playin’ at kid? Jesus, am I drunk? I don’t remember—” Jack looked wonderingly at his hands.

Mo was suddenly beside him, and his tiny hand grasped Jack’s. “You ain’t drunk, Mr. Kelly. Now, come along with me.”


	2. Racetrack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guy a few stools down seemed to have better luck. “’Ey. C’n I have another?”
> 
> Jack knew that voice. Oh, thank God. Thank God. He hopped off his stool, forgetting all about Mo, and before he knew what he was doing, he had the man by the shoulders.
> 
> “Jesus, Race. Are you real?”
> 
> “’Scuse me?” Racetrack’s eyes were wide—and angry. He shook Jack’s hands off his shoulders in disgust and shot a harried look at the bartender, who shrugged and grabbed a murky bottle full of brown liquor. The bartender poured one out, and Race knocked it back without flinching. He nodded, and the bartender filled the glass again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I have no idea if anyone is actually reading this, but if you are, happy holidays! Be warned: there's some adult language and references to drunkenness ahead. So, you know, normal holiday stuff! 
> 
> ...and if you know "It's a Wonderful Life," you know this is going to get darker before it gets better. Merry Christmas? ;-)

Jack pulled Mo toward Water Street, not quite deserted in spite of the impending holiday. As they drew closer to the row of saloons and barrooms that served the dock workers, Jack saw a few familiar faces. He knew he looked ridiculous toting Mo around—but how did any of these guys know that Mo wasn’t his own little boy? That he was parading around town with. In the middle of the night.

“Heya, Paul,” Jack mumbled to one of his grizzled co-workers as they passed. The other man said nothing. Maybe he’d had too much to drink.

They passed another, and Jack actually extended his hand. “John, Merry Christmas.” John looked at Jack as though he were crazy and kept on.

“They don’t know you, Mr. Kelly,” Mo said. He looked wonderingly at his own feet, and Jack watched as the little boy kept changing his gait; first, a skip; then, a gallop; finally, a series of frenetic hops that sprayed frigid, slushy water every which way. Jack wondered how he managed to avoid getting splashed. It seemed like the water should have landed on his pants leg, but he couldn’t feel anything.

“I’m sorry?” Jack said, still distracted by the dry state of his pants.

Mo jumped into another pile of slush, breaking through the filmy skin of ice on top. He smiled and looked up at Jack. “They don’t know you. You ain’t never been born, remember.”

“So you said,” Jack replied. He looked at his pants again. It was cold, wasn’t it? Why wasn’t he cold? Why wasn’t Mo? What the hell?

“It’s the truth,” Mo insisted. “ _You_ know.” He spun in a little circle and giggled to himself. 

Great. That again. “Sure. I know.” 

“Ain’t you figured it out yet?” Mo took Jack’s hand, and it made his heart ache for Michael and Grace. Who, if this little imp was to be believed, couldn’t have been born either. Right?

“I ain’t figured out nothin’,” Jack said softly. He gripped Mo’s hand a little bit tighter. The boy felt real; Jack suddenly did not. 

“Huh,” Mo said. He sounded disappointed. “I thought you got it.”

Jack rolled his shoulder, just to see—and he still couldn’t feel any of the usual pain. _What_ the hell? “You gotta give me a minute. I’ve spent the last 25 years being alive; this not being born thing is new to me,” he reasoned, not quite believing the words coming out of his mouth.

Mo cocked his head. “I know you think you’re bein’ funny, Mr. Kelly.”

“I’m a riot,” Jack replied. His voice was hollow. He let go of Mo’s hand and mopped his own over his face. “God, I need a drink.”

It wasn’t a prayer exactly, but the answer seemed to materialize as if it were. They had come to a halt in front of McCloskey’s bar. Surely, a little nip at the bottle would quiet Jack’s nerves. He nodded to himself. 

“I ain’t sure you should follow me in here, kid.”

Mo crinkled his nose. “It’s awright, Mr. Kelly. Ain’t no one gonna mind.”

“It’s a bar,” Jack said stupidly. Bad enough he was wandering around town with the kid; he didn’t need to haul him into a working man’s bar. The standard dock worker was not exactly known for his social decorum. The kind of dock worker that would be haunting a barroom in the middle of the night on Christmas eve was certainly not going to be setting the kind of example a kid like Mo should see. Whatever kind of kid Mo was.

“I’ll just say I’m lookin’ for my dad, and ain’t nobody’ll say a thing,” Mo said. He looked at the sidewalk crack in front of him and hopped on it.

“Lookin’ for your dad?” Did strange children who appeared out of nowhere have fathers? 

“Sure,” Mo said practically. He stood carefully on one foot, and once he was satisfied with his balance, continued to bounce on the sidewalk crack. “You think the mothers come lookin’? No way.”

“Huh.”

“That’s how all the drunk fathers get home.”

“That ain’t how I remember it,” Jack said darkly. No one had ever sent him out for his father; it had always been better if the man didn’t come home at all. He remembered his mother sitting at the table, waiting, and—

A little finger poked him in the side. “You shouldn’t be rememberin’ anything, Mr. Kelly.”

Well, that was disconcerting. Jack took a deep breath. “Because I ain’t never been born?”

“You _know!_ ” Mo said with a gap-toothed smile.

“I’m pickin’ up on somethin’,” Jack muttered. He sighed. “Well, c’mon, Mo. But I ain’t buyin’ you a beer.”

“I don’t think I like it anyway,” Mo said helpfully. And they went inside.

The bar was not lively. All of the usual holiday gaiety would have ended hours before, and a glooming silence had settled over the musty wood-paneled room. There were only a few men still around, but they all looked like they’d been there for hours, elbows propping up bodies that ached for a warm bed—and likely didn’t have one waiting for them. No one, not even the barkeep, who was deeply absorbed in a newspaper that looked like it had been read by at least thirty other people, acknowledged Jack and Mo as they shuffled in.

Jack hoisted Mo onto a cheap barstool before taking his own; the kid was right—no one seemed to care that he was there. Jack knocked on the greasy bar top, but the bartender didn’t look up from his paper. Mo giggled to himself. 

The guy a few stools down seemed to have better luck. “’Ey. C’n I have another?”

Jack knew that voice. Oh, thank God. Thank _God_. He hopped off his stool, forgetting all about Mo, and before he knew what he was doing, he had the man by the shoulders.

“Jesus, Race. Are you real?”

“’Scuse me?” Racetrack’s eyes were wide—and angry. He shook Jack’s hands off his shoulders in disgust and shot a harried look at the bartender, who shrugged and grabbed a murky bottle full of brown liquor. The bartender poured one out, and Race knocked it back without flinching. He nodded, and the bartender filled the glass again.

Jack watched as Race drained another glass. Shit, Racer never drank like this. What was going on? “I thought you went home. What’re you doin’ here?” Jack asked softly.

Race’s face was screwed into a look that Jack knew usually spelled trouble. “I’m havin’ a drink. What’s it to you?” Race rapped his knuckles on the bar, and the bartender responded in kind; the other man didn’t even move to stow the bottle. Race’s eyes were bloodshot and bleary, and his cheeks were covered in a patchy dishwater beard that Jack _knew_ hadn’t been there a few hours before. Race looked—well, he looked old. And beat. He sank another shot.

“Nothin’,” Jack blinked at him. He reached out to put his hand on Race’s shoulder. “But ain’t Spot gonna be worried? Thought you said he was gonna make it festive.”

Race’s jaw flexed tight and he pushed back from the bar, flinging Jack’s hand away and standing up to his full height. When Race had been a stringy newsboy, that wouldn’t have been so intimidating—but now, after four years of lugging cargo, he had not only six inches but probably twenty pounds on Jack.

“What?” Race snarled. He looked at Jack, and his eyes were hard. The barkeep snorted, glad to finally have some holiday entertainment. Hollow men who brooded into their whiskey and beer were never this interesting.

Jack put his hands up. As if that were going to do anything. “Spot?” He said again.

“You know Spot?” Race growled. Hand to God, he growled.

Jack nodded uncertainly. “Sure. You live with ‘im? You been together for years? Ring a bell?” He looked back at where he’d left Mo, and the kid was spinning in a circle on the barstool, as though nothing particularly interesting was happening.

“What the _fuck_ are you talkin’ about?” Race grabbed a fistful of Jack’s coat.

“Racer—”

Race spat—but luckily, on the floor and not in Jack’s face. “And where do you get off callin’ me that? I don’t know you.” He rattled Jack by his coat collar.

“It’s me,” Jack wheezed. He heard the squeal of Mo’s spinning seat behind him. For shit’s sake.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t know who ‘you’ is, pal.” Jack could smell the whiskey on Race’s breath.

“It’s me: Jack.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Race said with a sneer. He rolled his eyes and spat on the floor again. “Jack.”

Holding Jack with one hand, Race pulled his other fist back and then slammed it into Jack’s mouth. Jack went sprawling, nearly taking out a table and chairs as he skidded on the dirty floor.

It was strange. It should hurt. Jack knew what a hit like that felt like. And yet—he’d felt _something_ , but it wasn’t pain. Not exactly. “Jesus!” he muttered, rubbing experimentally at his face. Nothing.

Race, or who Jack had thought was Race, stood over him. He spat again, and this time, it connected with the breast of Jack’s coat. “Ain’t a good idea to go around talkin’ about things you don’t know nothin’ about, is it?”

The barkeep looked positively gleeful as he leaned over the prostrate Jack. “Awright, mister. Get out. You and that kid.” He thumbed at Mo, who had at least stopped twirling in his seat. Jack heard the little feet touch down on the barroom floor, but his attention was still on Race, who had bellied back up to the bar and was preparing to drain another glass. The younger man swiped roughly at his eyes with the heel of his palm; he did not look back at Jack.

“We better go, Mr. Kelly,” Mo said. The little boy’s hand pulled gingerly on Jack’s. Jack awkwardly righted himself and they went out of the bar and into the night.

“What the hell was that?” Jack moaned, not quite to Mo. Race had never—Race would never—

“I told you, Mr. Kelly,” Mo said apologetically.

“I ain’t never been born,” Jack said. He swiped his hand across his mouth, somehow still expecting to see blood. There was none, of course. No blood. No Race and Spot. No Bushwick the cat. No Michael. No Grace. No nothing.

“You ain’t never been born,” Mo confirmed. 

“Great. Fantastic. Swell.” 

Mo shrugged. “Well, you asked for it, Mr. Kelly.”

Jack wanted to scream. “I didn’t mean—you know what? It don’t matter. This is just a dream, right? I’m dreamin’?”

“If that makes ya feel better.”

“Why did Race do that?” Jack wondered aloud. Mo watched him pace. “I just saw him a few hours ago. He was goin’ home to Spot.”

“He don’t live with Spot.”

Jack shook his head. “’Course he does. They been livin’ together since before me and Katherine got married.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Kelly. They don’t.” 

“What? Why not?”

“Well, they ain’t exactly friends.”

Jack snorted. No, Race and Spot weren’t exactly friends; they were so much more than that. They had always been. “What do you mean, kid?”

“I mean, you wasn’t there,” Mo said. There was a frustrated edge in his little voice, as though he couldn’t believe he had to explain this _again_. 

“I don’t understand.”

Mo sighed exasperatedly. “You wasn’t there to lead the newsies.” 

Jesus. Was this kid some kind of miniature soothsayer? “How do you—”

“An’ if you wasn’t there—”

Jack scratched at his head. He couldn’t figure out why it was so important that he be there. Yes, he was—had been?—in charge, but…“—Did Spot and Race…they never met?”

Mo shook his head. “Nah, they met. But without you there, they was at odds, y’see?”

Jack did not see. “No.”

“Who was your second?” Mo asked suddenly.

“What?”

“When you was leadin’ things. Who was your second?”

“Racetrack.”

“Okay,” said Mo with a quick nod. “So, he was in charge ‘stead a’ you. ‘Cause you can’t be no place if you ain’t been born.”

“Thanks,” Jack said dryly. “Then what happened? They would’ve known each other.”

“Yessir. But they was both in charge.”

“So?”

“So, think about how you and Mr. Conlon got along.”

Jack smiled in spite of himself. He and Spot had come a long way from their days as borough leaders; when they were young, things weren’t so simple. He could remember plenty of screaming matches and near-fist fights. “What’s your point?

“You always needed someone else to do your talkin’ for you. Or you’d get mad.” Which was true. That was how Race and Spot had gotten together in the first place. It didn’t take a genius to see the way Spot looked at Race from the word “go,” and Jack had taken full advantage of Race’s appeal. He had it on strict authority that everyone was happy with the arrangement. Except the arrangement apparently hadn’t actually happened. Had it? Jack’s head was spinning. 

“But that’s me. Racer would’ve—”

Mo sighed again. “That’s bein’ in charge, Mr. Kelly. They liked each other, for sure, but there was too much other stuff goin’ on.”

“Stuff?”

“Like big arguments over who got to sell where and that kind’a thing. They never got the chance to get along like they would’ve if you were there to do all the big stuff.” Right. Race had always been speaking for Jack. It was probably different when he had to speak for himself. Jack knew Spot—making a direct challenge to Spot Conlon’s authority never endeared anyone to him.

But—"What about the strike? Spot was there for us then. Wouldn’t they have—"

Mo smiled sadly, an expression which looked strange on the face of a kid who couldn’t be more than six or seven-years-old. No one so young should know so much. “Not without you, he wasn’t. That’s how come Race didn’t know what you meant just then. He don’t think Spot cares about ‘im at all anymore.”

Jack couldn’t believe it. It shouldn’t matter if he was or wasn’t there. He wasn’t the only guy that had watched Spot and Race fall for each other. He wasn’t the only leader there was. And if Spot hadn’t helped with the strike… He inhaled sharply. “Davey? What about Davey? He wouldn’t’a let that happen,” he said, more to himself than to Mo.

“Race don’t know Davey,” Mo piped up. 

Jack blustered through his thoughts, as though he hadn’t heard. “Oh, come on. It don’t matter if I was there. Davey is Davey. He would’ve kept Race in line. He would’ve been there.”

And then the significance of Mo’s words occurred to him. 

Jack knelt down to meet Mo’s eye. “Mo. What happened to Davey?” He put his hands on the little boy’s shoulders.

Mo tried to chew on his lip, but the absence of his front teeth made it difficult. His little brown eyes were wide. “I don’t know, Mr. Kelly. You seem pretty upset.”

“You gotta take me. Now.” Jack’s hands tightened over Mo’s arms. 

The little boy was unfazed. “Awright, but if you didn’t like this, I ain’t sure how you’re gonna feel about it.” He gently shimmied out from under Jack’s hands and brushed his sleeves off with a businesslike air.

Jack was still on his knees. “Oh, God.” Why wouldn’t Davey have been there?

“ _He_ knows, Mr. Kelly,” Mo said with a quick glance upward.

“Well, at least somebody does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've got a second, please let me know what you thought. Feedback is the gift of the Magi. 
> 
> I was going to try to get this done before Christmas, but it seems likely that we'll be extending the season a few days. Maybe before 2021? Who knows. But thanks if you're hanging out with me thus far. :-)


	3. Davey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing here?” Davey asked. The hollow sound of his voice made Jack’s chest ache. What could possibly have happened between Davey and Les? 
> 
> Les stepped closer to Davey, and Davey turned his face like he’d been slapped. “You haven’t been home in months. You don’t answer any of our letters. We left telephone messages with your landlady, and—” 
> 
> “Yeah. Well. I moved,” Davey said flatly, craning his neck away from his brother. 
> 
> Les made an incredulous sound deep in his throat. “Clearly. And you didn’t bother to tell your family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I love Davey. Which means I am fundamentally unkind to him for my own entertainment. It's a rough one for him. But, hey! We know that there'll be a happy ending, yeah? 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been hanging in there with this one! I'm having fun, so I hope you are too. Happy Week Between Major Holidays! ;-)

Jack stared down at Mo as they approached their destination. His feet felt suddenly heavy, and he slowed to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. The World Building. He had done his best to avoid the place since he’d lost his cartoonist job. Everything about it was a reminder of his father-in-law’s wealth, power, and absolute disregard for anyone or anything besides himself; the building smugly dwarfed all the others around it, just the way Pulitzer loomed over the people who surrounded _him_. A stark shaft of winter moonlight bounced off the ornate golden dome, and Jack thought he might be sick.

“What are we doing here?” he asked Mo. “I thought you were takin’ me to Davey.”

“I am!” Mo nodded cheerfully. “S’where he works.”

“What? Davey wouldn’t work for Pulitzer. Not after what he did to me and Kath.”

Jack didn’t add that Davey was in law school, because after what he’d just been through with Race, he knew better than to assume things had stayed the same. But there were things that Jack _knew_ about Davey. Davey couldn’t work here. He _wouldn’t_. Jack didn’t have to exist for that to be true. Fair, Pulitzer couldn’t have destroyed Jack’s life if Jack never had one to begin with, but the man was _still_ Pulitzer. If that stupid building was still blocking out the sky, Pulitzer would still be exploiting people for his own gain, and Davey wouldn’t stand for that, Jack or no. Davey had principles, and he never failed to see them through. Jack knew that for a fact.

Mo rolled his brown eyes. “Mr. Kelly. Don’t forget. Things is different now.” He tried to pull the older man forward, but Jack wouldn’t budge.

“Things can’t be this different,” Jack murmured, still staring at the building as though it might pick itself up from its foundation and stomp on him.

Mo sighed. “I told ya you wouldn’t like this.” He dropped Jack’s hand and glared at him, crossing his little arms over his chest.

“You’re right. I don’t,” Jack huffed, crossing his own arms and glaring back.

“It ain’t my fault, Mr. Kelly. It’s just how things are now,” Mo insisted. “ _You_ know.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered to himself. He suddenly wished he had just thrown himself into the river; drowning was probably much easier and more pleasurable than trekking through what-might-have-been with the world’s tiniest Virgil. He looked back at the building and spat on the sidewalk. “What would Davey be doin’ at work at this hour anyway?”

“He should be comin’ out right there.” Mo pointed to a set of concrete stairs that sloped down toward a basement entrance. 

That was odd. “Why there? What does he do?”

“You’ll see,” Mo said. He took Jack’s hand again. “C’mon.”

Mo pulled Jack closer to the basement stairs. And sure enough, there was Davey. Almost. This Davey was not Jack’s Davey. He was with an older man, and they were both wearing dungaree overalls under their winter coats. Davey’s knees were stained with soot and grime, and even from a distance, Jack could see that there was dirt smeared across his face and ungloved hands. He was smiling at the other man, but Davey’s lean shoulders were stooped in a way that Jack had never seen them. Davey seemed to move slower and more gingerly, as though each step was a painful reminder of the work he’d just done. Jack knew that feeling, intimately, but Davey—Davey had never done that kind of work. He wasn’t supposed to have to. He was so smart and polished. Better than Jack. Davey was going to change the world.

Wasn’t he?

“Thanks for your help, kid. ‘Specially on Christmas Eve, when you should be home with your family,” the older man was saying. He extended a gnarled hand to Davey. 

Davey shook the man’s hand. “I don’t mind at all, Roy. I don’t celebrate anyhow. If you’d like me to work your shift tomorrow—”

Roy snorted and drew his threadbare coat closer around his body. “Son, you don’t need to pull another shift. You need to rest. You been workin’ yourself like a draft horse, and don’t think I ain’t noticed.”

Davey looked away. “Oh, well, I—”

“You listen to me,” Roy said, resting his hand on Davey’s shoulder. “Go home, get in your bed, and stay there. I’ll be just fine tomorrow.”

“Well, thanks,” Davey said, but Jack didn’t think that he sounded particularly grateful.

Roy’s face was soft as he squeezed Davey’s shoulder. “Thank _you_. You’re a good kid. But take it from me—the clock runs out before you know it. Slow down and take care of yourself, huh?”

“Sure thing.” Davey’s voice was nearly a whisper now.

“G’night,” Roy said. Jack saw him shake his head as he walked away.

“Good night,” Davey said to Roy’s back.

Jack wanted to move closer to him—but he wasn’t sure he could handle how it would feel if Davey didn’t know him. And Davey wouldn’t know him. Because Jack didn’t exist.

Jack watched as his friend tried to force himself into a more upright posture. Davey moaned and held himself in a stretch for one delicious instant—and then Jack saw his shoulders hunch forward again as though they’d been sprung from a slingshot. Davey hung his head with a sigh.

God, did Jack know that feeling.

“Oh, Davey,” Jack whispered. What had happened? How had Davey ended up _here_?

Mo tugged on his hand. “Just wait, Mr. Kelly. We ain’t done yet.”

“Whaddaya mean? This ain’t enough?”

Mo solemnly shook his head. “You ain’t seen everythin’ you need to yet. We gotta follow him for a little bit.”

“Are you serious?”

Mo just stared at him.

“Yeah, right. I know. _I_ know,” Jack muttered. 

Jack figured the only reason Davey didn’t notice that he was being trailed by the city’s most awkward detective team was that he was completely exhausted. Jack knew exactly what it was to wander home in a fog, and if his pained, slow steps were any way to judge, that’s certainly what Davey was doing.

But Jack was confused. They weren’t—well, _Davey_ wasn’t heading in either of the directions that would have made any kind of sense. He wasn’t going to his parents’ apartment; Jack knew the route there as well as he knew how to get any place, and this wasn’t it. Which was fair. Davey had been living in a rooming house uptown, so that he could be close to campus—but that was certainly not where he was going now. They were headed south, closer to the seaport, to Jack’s own neighborhood. Jack looked down at Mo for some kind of explanation, but the little boy was watching his own feet with startling focus.

Fantastic.

When Davey started fumbling for his key in front of Jack’s own rowhouse, Jack barely had it in him to be surprised; Jack knew well that this was the perfect home for an unhappy man who worked too much.

What was surprising was that, at this hour, a well-dressed young man was waiting in front of the building.

“David.”

It was Les. But, of course, it wasn’t. Jack’s Les was the leader of lower Manhattan now; this Les was wearing a shirt and tie in the middle of the night, and he was looking at Davey as though he might break. Mo tugged on the cuff of Jack’s sleeve, and they ducked behind the stoop of the building next door. 

Davey looked up from his feet and stopped short, as though he’d run into an invisible wall. He almost looked as if he were contemplating running in the other direction. He didn’t run, but Davey made no move to embrace Les; he wouldn’t even look at him. His eyes drifted back to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Davey asked. The hollow sound of his voice made Jack’s chest ache. What could possibly have happened between Davey and Les?

Les stepped closer to Davey, and Davey turned his face like he’d been slapped. “You haven’t been home in months. You don’t answer any of our letters. We left telephone messages with your landlady, and—”

“Yeah. Well. I moved,” Davey said flatly, craning his neck away from his brother. 

Les made an incredulous sound deep in his throat. “Clearly. And you didn’t bother to tell your family.”

Davey’s head sunk low between his shoulders. “Les, I—”

“I mean, what the hell, David? A basement flat? It’s not even legal.” Les swept his arm angrily toward the rowhouse.

He was right. The city had abolished basement apartments because they weren’t safe or fit to live in. But landlords still rented them on the sly to the people they could squeeze the rent out of. People who had nowhere else to go. People like Davey, apparently. Jack felt Mo’s little hand rest gently on his shoulder. 

“I have what I need,” Davey said. He finally looked up at Les, and the streetlamp lit his face. Jack hadn’t realized just how much older this Davey looked. There were threads of silver at his temples, and Jack could see fine lines crisscrossing the borders of his grey-green eyes. He was sure Les saw them too.

“Do you?” Les asked, and it was a sincere question. He took a step closer to his brother and hesitantly reached for Davey’s arms, which hung heavy at his sides.

Davey let himself be touched, just for a moment, but Jack saw the exact second he realized that he’d let Les get too close. Davey’s eyes squeezed shut, and he swiveled his arms away from Les’ hands.

“You need to go,” he whispered.

Les took a ragged breath and shook his head. “I can’t. Mama and Papa—”

“—should understand. Or didn’t they get last month’s money?” Davey said bitterly.

“They don’t care about the money,” Les insisted. He tried to reach for Davey again, but the elder Jacobs winced away from him.

“Well, it’s theirs just the same.”

Les looked at his brother with pleading eyes. “They want you to come home, David.”

“I am home. Right here,” Davey said, his voice leaden.

Les clenched his fists. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“Is that the kind of language they teach you in college?”

There was a dangerous pause that Jack didn’t quite understand. Because what did he know about the lives these two were living without him? Mo leaned his head against Jack’s arm.

“You can’t hold that against me forever,” Les said, and now it was his turn to avoid Davey’s eyes. 

“I’m not,” Davey said simply.

Les snorted. “Oh, okay. Sure.”

“No, Les—I’m not,” Davey replied, and his voice creaked under the weight of unshed tears. “I just—will you please go? You can tell them I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re not. I mean, my God, David—when was the last time you had a square meal? Or a full night’s sleep? You look—”

“I’m _fine_.” Davey shivered.

“David.”

“Please, just go.”

“No.”

“Les, I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what? David, we love you. We want you to come home. Please. You can’t hide forever,” Les tried.

“You don’t—I’m not— _please_.” Davey’s hands were pressing desperately on either side of his head, as though he might be able to squeeze himself out of existence.

“Davey,” Jack started, but Mo latched onto his coat.

“You can’t, Mr. Kelly.”

Les watched his brother helplessly. It was a moment before he could speak. When he did, his voice was soft with hurt. “I’m so sorry, David. I didn’t mean to take anything away from you.”

Davey’s hands slid down and off of his face. He looked entirely defeated. “You didn’t. But I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Les did not move immediately. Jack could see on Les’ face that he wanted to step closer to Davey, to touch his brother and erase whatever it was that had come between them, to wrap an arm around his shoulders and guide him home. But Davey had disappeared into himself. He was there on the sidewalk in front of Les, but he wasn’t—and when Les realized he couldn’t reach him, the younger man turned and walked away.

Davey stood frozen for a moment, not quite watching as Les turned the corner. Then, he turned and punched the brick façade of the building, once, twice, three times, punctuating each blow with a guttural scream. His knuckles were bloody when he finally pulled them away, and when he opened his fist, his apartment key was still there; Jack could see the angry impressions the key had made while the two brothers spoke. And then, Davey slumped forward again and moved to the basement stairs, disappearing under the crowded rowhouse.

Jack thought he might be sick. Before he realized what he was doing, he pulled Mo toward him by his little vest. “Awright, explain. Now.”

Mo calmly uncurled Jack’s fingers from his vest. He shook his sandy head. “I told you you wouldn’t like it—”

Jack clenched his hands into fists, reminding himself that Mo was a child—wasn’t he?—and that one did not hit children. Not even otherworldly children who showed you things you didn’t want to see. “I don’t _care_ if I like it. You need to tell me what’s goin’ on.”

Mo smoothed his trousers. “Well, when Davey and Les had their first day?”

“What about it?” Jack hissed. Mo was entirely unbothered.

“You wasn’t there. _You_ know.”

Jack closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer for patience. “Right. Because I ain’t never been born.”

“Right!” Mo said with a smile. Like he was congratulating the class dunce for learning the alphabet.

Jack grit his teeth. “But how did Davey—”

“You wasn’t there, and so there weren’t no one to show Davey the ropes. Everybody was pretty busy.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He wasn’t no good at bein’ a newsie.”

Jack laughed sadly. “I could’a told you that.”

“No, Mr. Kelly. You don’t understand. He was real bad, and there wasn’t no one to show him what to do. So’s he didn’t get no better.”

“But the strike—”

Mo blinked up at him. “I thought you got it, Mr. Kelly. There wasn’t no strike. You wasn’t there to plan it.”

Jack’s blood—did he have blood now?—ran cold. No strike? “But Davey—”

“He had’a find something else to do to make money. The boys was all stressed with the price hike, and ain’t no one paid him any mind—'specially since you wasn’t there.” Jack felt his jaw go slack; Mo’s little hand was patting him gently on the back. “I told ya, Mr. Kelly.”

“So, all the boys?” What had happened to them? If there was no strike, no Davey to lead one, no Spot to help, what had happened to his boys?

Mo looked at his shoes. “Some of ‘em didn’t have such a good time of it. Pulitzer kept makin’ the papes more ‘spensive.”

Jack sat, stunned. “What did he do? What did Davey do?”

“He went to work in a factory, Mr. Kelly.”

“Him and Les?”

“Not Les,” Mo said with a shake of his head. “He told his mama and papa he wouldn’t let Les work in one of _those_ places. So, he did it all by himself.”

Of course he did. Because that’s absolutely what Davey would do. But Jack also knew that Davey had a specific horror of factory jobs. They represented every worry that Davey pretended not to have: filth, poverty, anonymity, pain, inertia. Davey knew he was a two-bit newsie, but he’d told Jack more than once that he’d rather walk clean through his shoe leather than end up trapped in a room where “the hum of machines overpowers human decency.” Jack remembered thinking how smart Davey sounded, how he was just as glad that Davey wasn’t in one of those places either. He had so much to offer the world.

Jack had never really thought about what _he_ had to offer Davey. Until now.

He took a deep breath and prepared to rationalize. “Okay. I know they ain’t so nice, but, after his pop got better—”

“It wasn’t enough,” Mo interrupted. 

“What?”

“His papa’s money. So…”

“So?”

“So, he didn’t never go back to school. He kept workin’ in the factory. Les got to go back to school, and Davey helped them get the money they needed.”

That didn’t make any sense. Esther and Mayer would never have kept Davey from school. They knew how important it was to him, what it could mean for their family. “But his folks—”

Mo released a heavy sigh. “Thought he’d find a way to go back; they were scared maybe Les wouldn’t if they didn’t make him. But Davey didn’t go back. Didn’t want to let them down.”

“He wouldn’t’a let them down,” Jack said softly. Davey would never let anyone down—except maybe himself.

“He don’t know that, Mr. Kelly. No one ever showed him what he could be.”

“I wasn’t there,” Jack breathed.

“Nope.”

“And Les?”

“I told ya, he got to go back to school. He’s in college now.”

Jack looked back at Mo in disbelief. “Les?” That had never been what Les wanted. Les felt about school the way Davey felt about factories. But one of the boys would have to go. Esther and Mayer would insist upon it. 

“Yep. And Davey works a few jobs to help pay for it. Like the one at the World Building. He’s a janitor.”

Jack shook his head. Davey couldn’t be a janitor. Davey couldn’t still be working in a factory. Davey was supposed to be a lawyer. Davey was supposed to fix all the things that hadn’t been right for them. He was going to make it better for Michael and Grace. He’d promised Jack.

But he hadn’t, had he? Davey didn’t know who Jack was.

Jack cleared his throat. “Why don’t he live with his folks? Why help pay for everythin’ and not stay with them?”

“It hurts him too much, Mr. Kelly,” Mo said softly.

“What does?” Jack asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Seein’ his brother get all the stuff he wanted for himself. Knowin’ that there’s so many things he don’t know or can’t do. He doesn’t want that Les should know he feels that way. So he stays here. ‘Cause he thinks it won’t hurt everyone so much.”

“Seems like a shitty plan,” Jack muttered.

“Mr. Kelly.” Mo’s pudgy hands were on his hips. “That ain’t a nice word.”

“Sorry, Mo.”

“S’okay,” Mo said pragmatically. He looked carefully at Jack with his big brown eyes. “You all right, Mr. Kelly?”

Jack stared straight ahead. “I don’t know. First, Racer. And Davey? And no strike? All the guys—and I can’t help them.”

“You _didn’t_ ,” Mo corrected him. “Because you weren’t there.” As if that were a reasonable explanation. He _had_ been there. He could remember all of it so clearly.

“I—” Jack buried his face in his hands. “I can’t do this no more. I wanna go home.”

Mo’s sandy head shook frantically back and forth. “Mr. Kelly, you can’t just do that.”

“Sure I can. We’re already here.” Jack cocked his head toward the rowhouse. He wanted to forget that Davey had consigned himself to a cell in the basement; he wanted to believe that Katherine would be in their little apartment on the third floor. Katherine would help him make sense of all of this.

“She ain’t there, Mr. Kelly.”

Jack looked up. “What?”

“Mrs. Kelly ain’t there. She don’t live down here no more.”

Jack took both of Mo’s pudgy hands in his own. “But you know where she is? Take me? Please, Mo? I need her.”

Mo sighed. “Awright. But I don’t need to tell you—”

“I won’t like it?”

“Who knows? You’re kind of a weird fella, Mr. Kelly. But it ain’t gonna be what you expect.”

“Nothin’ is, I guess,” Jack said, with a last look at Davey’s basement stairs. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally even sadder, so...you know, you're welcome?
> 
> As always, feedback drives me to dance small dances of joy. Leave some if you can.


	4. Katherine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is she married?”
> 
> Mo’s breath hitched, and he shifted a little under Jack’s arm. “Maybe I shouldn’t say.”
> 
> “Mo, please.” He eased Mo up and away from him, keeping his hand on the little boy’s shoulder.
> 
> Mo’s feet began to swing again, and his brown eyes wouldn’t meet Jack’s. 
> 
> “Do they—do they have kids?” Jack rasped.
> 
> “No, they don’t, Mr. Kelly,” Mo said, feet still moving back and forth, eyes still glued on his shoelaces. “Please don’t ask me no more questions. You’ll see, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Kath's turn! And the big twist... it is nigh. Thanks to those who are still reading!

And just like that, they were on the Interborough Rapid Transit. Jack hadn’t yet had an occasion to take one of the new underground trains, but here he was, hurtling uptown by way of a subterranean brick tube. The car was deserted but for him and Mo, who was sitting next to him on the upholstered bench, watching his chubby legs swing back and forth. Jack had never met a kid more obsessed with watching his own feet.

There was a screech as the car angled for an awkward turn, and Jack flinched. The clatter and rumble of the car reminded him that he was here, that this was all happening—wasn’t it? The longer the night went on, the more tenuous Jack’s hold on reality. Had it _really_ only been a few hours since Mo found him on the docks? Why had the kid stopped him, anyway? _How_ was any of this happening? And why? Children generally didn’t appear out of nowhere in the middle of the night, and they certainly didn’t come equipped with the power to alter space and time. Did they?

“Mo?” Jack asked, his eyes on Mo’s pendulum legs. “What are you?”

The little boy wrinkled his nose. “C’mon, Mr. Kelly. _You_ know.”

“I really don’t. How do you know all the stuff you know? Are you some kind’a angel? A ghost?”

Mo shrugged and continued to watch his feet move to and fro, to and fro. His little fingers curved around the upholstery as he leaned forward for a better look.

“Right. Good talk,” Jack mumbled. He stared across the car, almost surprised to see his own reflection brooding back at him from the plate glass window; he was beginning to suspect that he might actually be starting to disappear. Sure, he could get socked in the mouth and not feel a thing—but somehow, he missed the pain. At least if a guy was bleeding, he knew he was alive. Jack wasn’t so sure of that just then.

“I promise it’ll make sense ‘ventually,” Mo said.

“That don’t help me right now.”

The tiny feet stilled. “Sorry, Mr. Kelly.”

Mo leaned gently against him, and Jack’s heart ached for his own children. He slipped his arm around Mo, who promptly cuddled into his side. “S’alright, I guess. I just—why are we on the subway?”

“’Cause where we’re goin’ is far away.”

Jack looked down at the top of Mo’s sandy head. “But you don’t—like, fly? Or just appear places?”

Mo rolled his eyes. “Mr. Kelly. We walked all the other places.” 

“Yeah,” Jack said. They couldn’t walk to Katherine. She wasn’t close. They were headed uptown. Maybe that was a good thing. Without Jack, maybe she had the kind of life she was supposed to. He let his fingers run absently up and down Mo’s arm. “Can you tell me anything about her before—before I see?”

Mo’s head shook against Jack’s chest. “That ain’t how it works, Mr. Kelly.”

“’Course not.” But Mo had to know. He’d known about Race and Davey; why wouldn’t he know about Katherine?

“She’s okay, though.”

Jack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. “She is?” Thank God, thank _God_. He squeezed Mo a little closer to him.

“It ain’t like your other friends,” Mo said. And even though he knew shouldn’t—not after what had happened to Race and Davey—Jack felt glad. Katherine was all right. Maybe she was even happy. Maybe she was—oh, shit—

“Is she married?”

Mo’s breath hitched, and he shifted a little under Jack’s arm. “Maybe I shouldn’t say.”

“Mo, please.” He eased Mo up and away from him, keeping his hand on the little boy’s shoulder.

Mo’s feet began to swing again, and his brown eyes wouldn’t meet Jack’s. 

“Do they—do they have kids?” Jack rasped.

“No, they don’t, Mr. Kelly,” Mo said, feet still moving back and forth, eyes still glued on his shoelaces. “Please don’t ask me no more questions. You’ll see, okay?”

Jack relented. “Okay.”

And when they were back above ground, Jack did see. There were still a few blocks to go, but the wrought-iron gates and scrollwork facades made it clear that they were a long way from anything resembling Jack’s neighborhood. Katherine was where she belonged. She was better off. She _was_.

“S’this one,” Mo said. They stopped in front of a sprawling brick building flanked by strips of manicured garden. Jack peered through the gate; the front stairs were marble— _actual_ marble—and there was a horseshoe-shaped drive for carriages and—was that?—yes, it was!—a motorcar. Electric lights glittered from the windows, and Jack was sure that the house was full of beautiful furniture and priceless art and all of the things that Katherine deserved. A place like that would never be cold. Mice and cockroaches would stay respectfully hidden away. There would always be enough food. She would be safe and happy.

Jack squinted at the pristine brass nameplate fixed on one of the massive stone pillars at the front of the house.

“Darcy. She’s married to Darcy?” He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or heartbroken. Kath couldn’t very well betray him if she didn’t even know he was alive—which, evidently, he was not. Not really. Darcy was a fine choice. A safe choice. A choice of which her father would surely have approved.

“He treats her nice, too,” Mo said. He smushed his face between the wrought iron fence posts.

Jack stared back at the house. She was right there. He was so close. “Mo? Can I see her? I mean, can I talk to her?”

“Mr. Kelly, that probably ain’t a good idea.”

Jack knew Mo was right. He’d avoided catastrophe with Davey, but when he’d tried to talk to Race… “What? Kath ain’t gonna punch me.”

“Do you know that for sure?” Mo asked seriously.

“I know everythin’ about Kath. For sure.” Jack’s voice was thick.

Mo cocked his sandy head. “Nah. You knew everythin’ before. Now is different.” _That_ was an understatement.

“I don’t care. I—I gotta see her,” Jack replied, wrapping his hands around the iron picket.

Mo shrugged and pulled his face from the gap in the fence. He looked up at Jack with serious eyes. “Suit yourself. But be careful, okay?”

“Okay, Mo,” Jack agreed.

The gate shouldn’t have been unlocked, but nothing was as it was supposed to be. Jack watched his working man’s boots as they tromped up the beautiful marble stairs. It was late, yes, but the lights were still glowing. It was a holiday. People who lived in houses like this probably celebrated into the night. They _had_ things to celebrate, after all. He didn’t belong here—but Kath did, and that’s what really mattered. He just needed to see her, just once. And then he would go. For good.

Jack took a deep breath and knocked on the white coffered door. White. What a practical choice.

A droopy-eyed butler appeared in front of him. He did not look amused. He checked his pocket watch, then looked suspiciously back at Jack.

“Yes?” The man’s voice seemed to be trapped in his nasal cavity. 

“Is, uh, Mrs. Darcy at home?” Jack asked. He didn’t feel as though he were really talking about Katherine. The man blinked at him. “C’n I see Mrs. Darcy?”

The butler sighed. “Do you have an appointment?”

Right. Because midnight appointments were a thing. Especially in this neighborhood. “No, but—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are not expecting you?”

Jack was sure he felt a flutter in his stomach. Mrs. Darcy. “Yeah, no.”

“I’m afraid we cannot accommodate you.”

“’Scuse me?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are indisposed and cannot take any callers.”

As if on cue, there was the sound of laughter and tinkling glasses from an adjoining parlor.

Jack stared back at the butler. “I think you and me both know that ain’t true.” He started to push his way into the hall, but the butler pressed a bony hand to Jack’s chest.

“ _I_ think you need to leave, sir.” 

Jack swiped the man’s hand away. “I ain’t leavin’ until you let me see her.”

The butler’s eyes widened. “ _Sir_ —”

“Oh, blow it out your rear,” Jack hissed. To hell with being careful. He had to see her. He shouldered past the grey-liveried man, heading toward the parlor. “Kath! Katherine!”

The butler grabbed for Jack’s coat. “I must ask you to—”

“You ain’t askin’ me nothin’, pal,” Jack snarled, jerking away. “Katherine!”

“Stames, what is going on?”

There she was. His Katherine. She was wrapped in a forest green silk kimono, hints of ribbon and lace peeking out where the two fabric panels criss-crossed over her chest. Her auburn hair hung loose and glossy over her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed pink; Jack imagined that she’d been sitting in front of a roaring fire until he’d barged in. She looked years younger than when he’d seen her just a few hours before. She looked _happy._

And a little confused. Of course. Because there was a stranger standing in her foyer in the middle of the night. A stranger who knew her name and every curve of her body, and oh—

Stames, however, did not look so happy. “Mrs. Darcy, I’m so sorry. This man—”

Jack couldn’t help himself. He went to her and took her hands in his. They were so warm. And impossibly soft. She didn’t have to mend anything or slave over a stove here. “Oh, Kath. Thank God. You’re real.”

She snatched her hands away, staring at them as though they’d been struck by lightning. But she didn’t walk away from him. “I—I’m sorry—do I know you?”

Jack’s heart sank. “You—I, no. No, you don’t.” Because she couldn’t. He looked down at his boots, black and ugly against the rosy stone of the entryway floor.

“Mrs. Darcy?” the butler asked, keeping his eyes on Jack. “I can telephone the police.”

“Just a moment, Stames,” Katherine said shortly. She looked back at Jack, and, God, had her eyelashes always been so long? She pursed her perfect pink lips, and it took everything he had not to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. “Even if I don’t know you, it seems like you know me,” she murmured. 

“I—” Jack began, but what could he say? _Hey, up until a couple hours ago, we were married. We have two beautiful children. But some kid showed up, and now I don’t exist anymore. Neither do our babies. How are you?_ He shrugged noncommittally. “I know _of_ you.” Sure. Yes. That would work.

“How?” Of course. A good reporter always asked follow-up questions. Stames smirked as he watched Jack squirm.

“What?”

“How do you know _of_ me?”

He fumbled for a logical explanation. “Well, I mean—your father—”

Her face fell. “Of course.” So, some things never changed. Joseph Pulitzer would never change. 

“How are you?” Jack asked suddenly. If he was about to be thrown out, he at least had to know that.

“I’m sorry?”

He supposed it was an awkward question, given the situation. His head fell forward. “Nothin’. You, uh, you have a beautiful home.”

He could feel her eyes on the crown of his head, searching for something. “Thank you, Mr.—”

Jack didn’t look up. “Kelly. Jack Kelly.”

“Mr. Kelly,” she said, and he hated the way that the name— _her_ name—sounded unpracticed and new. “Thank you for the compliment. But I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”

“Your writing,” Jack replied suddenly. The words slipped out before he even realized he’d thought them. Stames sniffed in distaste.

“What?” Katherine’s voice was instantly smaller. 

“Your writing. I saw it in _The Sun_.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “How could you—”

“And I—I just had to tell you what it meant, what it _means_ to me.”

“I don’t—”

“Your writing saved my life, Kath.” Because it had. His life, and Davey’s, and Race’s, and countless others. She’d helped them earn their square deal.

Except she hadn’t. There hadn’t been a strike. Race was drinking himself to death on the docks, and Davey was bent and old before his time. None of it had ever happened. But Jack clung to the memory as though he were clinging to a ledge.

“Mrs. Darcy.” Stames was stepping closer to the telephone.

Katherine shook her head. “I don’t understand. I’m not—I don’t write,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Not anymore.”

No. That couldn’t be true. If she had all of this, why couldn’t she write? She _had_ to write. 

“Katherine?”

Darcy wandered in, draped in a rich brown dressing gown. He was at Katherine’s side instantly, and Jack wilted as Darcy put a confident arm around her waist and kissed her temple—like he’d done it a million times before, like it wasn’t Jack’s job to hold her and comfort her in the moments when things did not make sense. And Katherine leaned into his touch, fitting neatly against his side. But she didn’t look at Darcy. She was still looking at Jack.

“Darcy. This is my husband,” she said. Jack thrilled at the idea that _he_ was the one being introduced—and then Darcy kissed her again. Jack looked away.

“Who’s this?” Darcy asked.

“A Mr. Jack Kelly,” Stames said curtly. He glared at Jack.

“Mr. Kelly.” Darcy nodded, not unkindly. Especially considering there was a strange man in the grand hall of his very expensive home in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. Making his wife— _his_ wife, not Jack’s—uncomfortable. Darcy gently caressed Katherine’s cheek; Jack firmly set his jaw. “Are you all right, darling?”

“I’m fine—really, everything is fine.” But both Jack and Darcy knew that everything was _not_ fine.

“You shouldn’t have stopped,” Jack heard himself say. 

Katherine just looked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Your writing. You shouldn’t have stopped. You can help people, Kath. You’re too good to just—”

“Kath?” Darcy asked, clearly confused.

“I don’t know,” Katherine said. Her eyes were still on Jack’s. Darcy’s arm tightened around her waist.

Darcy loved her. Jack was sure that he did. She would always be safe and well cared for. It was more than he could offer her. But—

Jack took a step closer to her. “Just—don’t forget what you can do. All right?”

And then, he leaned in and kissed her, ever so quickly, on the cheek. Stames was at the telephone in an instant; Darcy was frozen; Katherine touched her fingertips to the place where his lips had just been; and Jack was rushing out the door.

He grabbed Mo from the spot where he’d been waiting on the front stairs and hot-footed it down the street and away from Katherine. For good. He didn’t stop running until he’d put at least four blocks between himself and the Darcys.

He set Mo on his feet, and reflected that he ought to be panting for breath. But those who had never been born did not breathe. “She’s all right, Mo. She’s safe. He—he’s taking good care of her.”

Mo smoothed his trousers. “I know, Mr. Kelly.”

“A’course you do,” Jack said. He ruffled Mo’s sandy hair. “Her father got what he wanted, huh?”

“Mr. Pulitzer said they could get married, yeah.”

“But she don’t write anymore,” Jack said. He looked at Mo, knowing the little boy would have an explanation. 

Mo sighed. “There wasn’t no strike.”

“Yeah.”

“She never got out of writin’ all that stuff about weddings and flower shows. She didn’t like that a whole lot. Nobody’d give her a break. So, she just stopped. ‘Sides, it’s busy bein’ a rich guy’s wife. Lots a’ committees and stuff.”

“She’s better off this way,” Jack said. He almost believed it. 

“Are you sure, Mr. Kelly?” Mo reached up for his hand, and they started to walk. “You sure she ain’t happier with you?”

Jack shook his head. “She don’t have all that.” Even if he thought Katherine looked just as beautiful in a lopsided, homemade shirtwaist as she did in a silk kimono. Even though Michael and Grace had disappeared into the ether. Even though she’d looked at her hands like his touch meant something to her. She was safer with Darcy; she would be happier with Darcy.

“No,” Mo agreed. He tugged gently on Jack’s hand. “But she’s got you.”

“That ain’t much.”

Mo stopped walking. He looked up at Jack with his giant brown eyes—and he was angry. “Mr. Kelly. You’re supposed to _know_. You should’ve figured it out.”

“What? What am I supposed to know? I don’t know nothin’—”

Mo threw Jack’s hand away. “Yes, you do! You help people, Mr. Kelly. You make their lives better.”

“But Kath—”

“This ain’t what she wants!” Mo nearly exploded. His little cheeks reddened under their freckles. “Think about Racer and Spot; think about Davey and his family—you help people find what they _need_. And without you, Mrs. Kelly—”

“—Mrs. Darcy—” Jack corrected.

Mo stomped his foot. “Mrs. _Kelly_ ain’t got what she needs.”

“You’re wrong,” Jack said miserably. “And I can’t give her what she needs neither. I ain’t made any of it better for her.”

“What about your kids, Mr. Kelly? She don’t have them. And without you, she don’t even remember the things she can _do_.”

Jack knelt down and put his hands firmly on Mo’s shoulders. “Memories ain’t gonna feed you. All they do is remind you of what you don’t have.”

Mo stared at him, hard. “That ain’t true, Mr. Kelly. We only remember the important stuff. Good or bad. Even when they hurt, they’re there for a reason.”

Jack snorted. “Yeah, and what reason is that?”

“To remind us how far we’ve come,” Mo said simply. “And maybe how far we can go, too.”

“And how do you know that?” Jack asked. 

Mo took a breath. “Because without you, I ain’t got many memories either.”

“I don’t get it, Mo.”

“Charlie.”

_Charlie?_

“What?” Jack gasped. His fingers tightened around the boy’s shoulders, and he searched Mo’s face. Yes. The freckles. The brown eyes. The sandy hair—it couldn’t be.

“People used to call me Mo. A long time ago. Before I knew you. But my name is Charlie. Charlie Morris.”

It couldn’t be. Mo had jumped, skipped, and galloped his way through the city. His perfect, healthy little legs had rocked back and forth on the subway. And Mo hadn’t been able to look away from them. Because…because—oh, God.

Mo—Charlie—cocked his head at Jack. “Sorry I didn’t tell you before. If it wasn’t for you, Jack, this—” he gestured at his legs. “—is how I would’ve stayed. Forever.”

Jack pulled Charlie into his chest, hugging him fiercely. But he didn’t understand. What did Charlie mean? Had Jack had something to do with his illness, with what had happened—would happen?—didn’t happen?—to his leg? He couldn’t remember.

As if he could hear Jack’s thoughts, Charlie shook his head. “I’m not sayin’ that’s how I _should’ve_ stayed. Jack—if I hadn’t met you, I would never have been here at all, y’see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how do we feel about the twist? Does it work? I ask, because when I was initially outlining this, I kept casting Race as Jack's angel--and that just didn't feel right. But tiny Crutchie? Heck yes. (Also, please note: this is not a weird ableist thing. Note that Charlie doesn't say he wants to be any other way than how we know him, but he has a few more things to explain to Jack before the point really gets made). One more installment to go!
> 
> Feedback? Pretty please, cherry on top?


	5. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But I—” Jack faltered. “Would all of that really be true? If I stay gone? Race, and—and Davey? You?” That Race and Davey would be miserable and alone. That Crutchie would never have been; he would have died before Jack could ever have given him his name. 
> 
> “Yeah. It would,” Charlie said. His voice hovered on the edge of a whisper. “We need you, Jackie.”
> 
> And for a moment, Jack felt resolve creep silently into his heart. He couldn’t consign—doom—his best friends to the versions of their lives he’d seen tonight. He would go back. He would live again. And Race would be safe in Spot’s arms; Davey would be preparing to change the world; and Crutchie, Crutchie would be. He wouldn’t let them down. But—
> 
> Jack looked away from the boy’s serious brown eyes. “Kath…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! Posted before the 12 Days of Christmas are officially up--so, this is still seasonally appropriate! ;-) Happy New Year!

Jack had the strange feeling that he was seeing two people at once. Mo was still there, tiny and freckled and whole, but suddenly, so was Crutchie, all grown-up. He blinked unsteadily. 

“Crutchie—”

Charlie flashed him a warm smile. “Yeah. Confusin’, huh? No crutch an’ all. You remember that you gave me my first one, right? That it was you who found me and took me in after I was sick?”

Jack did remember. It had been winter then too. Jack was stumbling back to the lodging house on tired feet when he’d almost tripped over something in the sidewalk. That something was Charlie, nearly frozen and unable to move. Jack was only ten, but he knew he couldn’t leave the kid there. When he’d tried to hoist the little boy into his own scrawny arms, Charlie had coughed and sputtered. _I got one good leg—you ain’t gotta carry me nowhere._

“I guess I ain’t thought about it in a while.”

“I’d be dead without ya, Jackie,” Charlie said seriously. He leaned forward and put his child’s hand on Jack’s shoulder. “An’ the others wouldn’t be farin’ so well neither. You matter. An’ I don’t know how else to prove it to you.”

“But I—” Jack faltered. “Would all of that really be true? If I stay gone? Race, and—and Davey? You?” That Race and Davey would be miserable and alone. That Crutchie would never have been; he would have died before Jack could ever have given him his name. 

“Yeah. It would,” Charlie said. His voice hovered on the edge of a whisper. “We need you, Jackie.”

And for a moment, Jack felt resolve creep silently into his heart. He couldn’t consign—doom—his best friends to the versions of their lives he’d seen tonight. He would go back. He would live again. And Race would be safe in Spot’s arms; Davey would be preparing to change the world; and Crutchie, Crutchie would _be_. He wouldn’t let them down. But—

Jack looked away from the boy’s serious brown eyes. “Kath…”

If he went back, she would still be yoked to the life she’d made with Jack. A life that, for all its happiness, was not what Jack wanted for her; he was sure it wasn’t what she wanted for herself either. If he let himself disappear, Katherine would be safe and happy with Darcy.

Charlie shook his head. “It ain’t about money. Or _stuff_. Jackie. You oughta know better than that.”

“Darcy is better for her.”

“He ain’t neither. Or didn’t you notice the way she looked at you?”

Maybe he had. But he wouldn’t fool himself into believing that any of what had happened at Darcy’s meant that he deserved Katherine. Because he didn’t. He never had.

Right? 

“How do you know?” Jack asked.

“ _You_ know,” Charlie said, and for once, Jack understood what he meant. It didn’t quell his fear, but he _did_ know. “Darcy ain’t better for her. You’re what’s good for Katherine. You know who she is, and you wouldn’t change her for the world.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jack said softly.

“I know. And you don’t think _that’s_ important? Most people never find that.”

Jack felt as though his heart were see-sawing in his chest. Charlie was right. But he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know that Jack _had_ changed Katherine, without meaning to. Because he wasn’t enough. “But she’s so tired. And I couldn’t get Mikey what he wanted for Christmas. We might not make rent next month.”

But Race. And Davey. And Crutchie. Jack looked away from Charlie. He couldn’t bear it.

Charlie scoffed. “And the world just might end tomorrow. Those is little things, Jackie. You shouldn’t ought to take yourself outta the game over somethin’ like that.”

Jack shook his head, keeping his eyes on the sidewalk. “Keepin’ my family happy and safe? It ain’t nobody else’s responsibility. And I ain’t very good at it.”

Charlie’s little hand reached out to touch his cheek. “But you _got_ a family. You give into this, and there’s no Mikey. No Gracie girl.” Jack closed his eyes. His heart sank down again. He’d been trying not to think about what any of this meant about Michael and Grace.

“Charlie. Crutchie, I—”

“You got friends. A guy what has friends can’t be a failure, y’know?”

“But—”

“You give a lot to your friends, Jackie. And whatever you give’ll come back to you tenfold. You just gotta stop bein’ so afraid of lettin’ your friends help you the way you’ve always helped us. It don’t mean you’re weak. It don’t mean you done nothin’ wrong. It’s the whole reason we got friends,” Charlie said. He wrapped his arms around Jack’s neck. “Trust us to carry you for a little while.”

Jack didn’t know how to do that. He had never really known how to accept love without wondering when the bottom would fall out. Because it always _did_. People died. Or left. Or realized that you weren’t who they thought you were. Or you let them down. And if you let them help you, if you showed them that you weren’t strong and independent, that you _needed_ them, it would frighten them away. Wouldn’t it?

Jack held Charlie close. “I’m scared.” He was scared of the cracks in his own façade and whether they would still love him if things started to crumble.

Charlie leaned back so that he could look at Jack’s face. He nodded, and his child’s face seemed wise and sure. “Yeah. Everybody’s scared. That don’t go away. But it ain’t so bad when you got company.”

Maybe that was true. His shoulders didn’t smart so much when he was talking to Race on the docks. He didn’t worry so much about Michael and Grace’s future when Davey talked about his plans, the way he was going to make sure that kids like them had opportunities and a seat at the table. He always felt lighter when Crutchie stopped by and reminded him how to laugh. And their rundown apartment felt like a palace when Katherine wrapped her arms around him. Maybe he’d just forgotten. And maybe, just maybe, Charlie was right. Maybe he’d given them all more than he realized. And maybe he _had_ more than he knew.

Maybe, he should stay. Even if he was frightened. Charlie was right: everybody was scared. And they were still there.

“If I go back—you’ll be there? I mean, you’ll be…”

Charlie’s face broke into a gigantic smile. “I will. And so will Kath, Mike, and Gracie. They’re waitin’ for you, Jackie boy. Don’t let ‘em down.”

He wouldn’t let them down. He would be there. He would figure it out.

Jack stood up and readied himself to leave. He had to find the subway again—he couldn’t run home from eighty blocks away, no matter how badly he wanted to see his family. As he stood, he felt the familiar ache creep back into his shoulders; he looked down at his hands, and cuts and callouses had reappeared. He smiled and looked back at Charlie. The little boy nodded. Yes. Jack was alive.

Jack reached out to ruffle Charlie’s hair. “I’ll be seein’ you, then?” he asked. He wasn’t sure what he meant. He knew he would never see this Charlie again, and yet, he had to know. 

Charlie smiled up at him, his freckled skin crinkling around his brown eyes. “You will. Just get goin’, huh?”

And so, he did. He was finally on his way home.

***

Jack knew that his apartment was awake and moving before he even put his hand on the doorknob. Light poured out from the crack under the front door, and he could hear muffled voices and the floorboards creaking under the tread of heavy winter boots. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been gone, but Katherine definitely wasn’t alone. He fished his key out of his coat pocket, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

Davey’s face greeted him on the other side.

“Kath—it’s Jack! He’s here!”

“Oh, thank God. Thank _God_ ,” Katherine’s voice came from the bedroom.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Jack threw his arms around Davey. Davey, who was standing straight and tall, whose face was still unlined, who was desperately confused by Jack’s outburst of affection.

“Davey,” Jack breathed. “I—you’re all right. You’re _you_.”

Davey blinked. “Um, sure, Jack.”

Jack laughed and squeezed the other man tighter. Somewhat bewildered, Davey returned the embrace.

“You okay, Jackie?” Davey asked, his voice concerned.

Jack pulled away, keeping one arm around Davey’s waist. He nodded frantically. “I’m fine! I’m great! Where’s—”

And then there she was.

“Katherine,” he breathed. He slid away from Davey and met her in the middle of the room, drawing her into his arms and crushing his mouth against hers.

Katherine was still in her nightdress, an old shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her dark, coppery hair haphazardly drawn back at the nape of her neck with a frayed green ribbon. She had never looked more beautiful. Jack cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again. Her skin was so warm against his.

Her hands clung to his upper arms, and her brown eyes desperately searched his face. “Jack. We were so worried. I was so worried. Where did you go?”

His lips found her forehead. “It don’t matter. It just matters that you know me.” He kissed her cheek.

She smiled and pulled him toward her, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Of course I know you, love. Are you all right? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I said anything about my father—”

Jack held her tighter. He shook his head. “You ain’t gotta be sorry. I—I shouldn’t have—”

The door banged open again.

“Hey! We couldn’t find ‘im, but—” Racetrack’s voice was saying. Then, there was a gasp. “Jesus, Jackie, you’re here.”

Jack turned, spinning Katherine so that her back was to his front, his arms looped around her waist. His breath caught in his chest when he saw Race—still weather-beaten and gnarled, but clear-eyed and holding Spot’s hand.

Spot shook his head as he looked at Jack and Katherine. “Figures. We spend a couple hours in the snow lookin’ for ya, and here ya are.” He shook some snow off his coat.

Jack smiled, his face stretched wider than he thought was humanly possible. “Good to see you too, Spot.”

Spot stared at Jack, hard, and then, the tiniest of smiles appeared on his face. “Well, you know how sensitive this boy of mine is. Interruptin’ his beauty sleep and all.”

“Shaddup,” Race said with a laugh. He leaned down to kiss Spot’s cheek.

A sound almost like a laugh burst out of Jack’s mouth. God, he was so relieved.

“You all right, Jackie?” Race asked.

“I will be,” Jack nodded. He kissed the top of Katherine’s head. “Where are the kids? I need to see ‘em.”

“Oh, they’re in the bedroom with—” but he was already taking the few steps, his hand sliding gently away from Katherine’s as he went.

Michael and Grace were sitting on his bed with—

“Crutchie?” Jack whispered.

“Da!”

Michael threw himself at his father, chubby arms snaking around his ribs. Jack jarred backward, but he caught Michael in his arms and held him close. Jack thought his heart might burst—he was holding his son, he was home, he was here. But he couldn’t take his eyes off of Crutchie.

The smaller man had Grace nestled between his legs. They were reading a tattered storybook. _The Pied Piper_. Crutchie looked up, and there were Mo’s—Charlie’s—brown eyes smiling back at him. But he was grown. His crutch was propped up against the bedside table. He was alive. And so was Jack.

Jack shifted Michael’s weight onto his hip and stepped toward his friend. He reached out and put a careful hand on his shoulder. “Crutchie. Charlie. You’re all right?”

Crutchie laughed, jabbing at Jack’s side. “’Course I am, Jackie boy. Are you? You like you seen a ghost.”

Jack didn’t know what to say.

“Da! Look!” Michael suddenly pitched forward and tumbled back onto the bed. He dug around under the covers for something, and when he pulled it out, Jack saw that it was a tiny locomotive engine. Brand new, brick red, and in his little boy’s hands. Michael hugged the engine to his chest for a moment and then held it out for Jack to see.

How on earth? “Mikey—where did you get that?” Jack fingered the engine’s tiny smokestack in wonder.

Crutchie cleared his throat, snuggling Grace close. “Santa dropped it off at my place by mistake. Was gonna bring it by tomorrow—guess we just got started a little earlier than expected.” He winked at Jack, who was doing his best not to fall apart.

“Was you playin’ hide and seek, Da?” Michael asked. He flopped onto the bed stomach first, _vroom_ ing the engine around on the sheets.

Jack sniffed. “Somethin’ like that, baby.” He thought maybe that’s what he _had_ been doing. He’d been hiding, for who knows how long, and Charlie had found him. Thank God.

“Unca Cwutch?” Grace tugged on Crutchie’s vest. He looked down at her and she looked back up at him, their big brown eyes meeting in silent agreement. Crutchie wrapped his hands around her hips and hoisted her toward Jack.

Jack took his little girl hungrily into his arms. “Oh, Gracie girl. My Gracie girl.” He closed his eyes and let himself breathe in her soft baby scent—all talcum powder and lavender. Her little hands rested gently on his shoulders.

“Kiss, Da,” she said, and then she closed her eyes and puckered her tiny lips.

“Always, acushla,” Jack murmured, meeting Grace’s lips with his own for a soft kiss. She rested her rosy cheek on his chest. “I love you. So much.” How could he possibly have considered never coming back to this, letting there be a world without Grace and her perfect little heart? He never wanted to put her down again.

Crutchie watched them with a satisfied smile. “We’re glad you’re back, Jackie. Kath was real worried. You’re needed around here, y’know?”

“I’ve heard that,” Jack said, and his voice was hoarse with tears. “Glad you’re here, Mo.”

Crutchie cocked his head in surprise. “Ain’t nobody’s called me that since I was a little kid.”

“Well.”

“Uncle Crutchie, Da, look! There’s little people in the car!” Michael had unearthed another train car from under a tuft of sheet. He jumped up. “I gotta show Mama!”

Jack watched Michael sprint out of the room. He pressed his lips to Grace’s cheek. “I can’t believe you got him the train,” he said to Crutchie.

The other man shrugged. “Well, hey. What’s the point of bein’ stuck inside an office if you can’t spoil your family, huh?”

Because that’s what they were. What they always had been. Would always be. Family.

“Thanks, Crutch,” Jack said. He reached out with his free hand. “I really appreciate it. I’ll get you back when I can.”

“You done plenty for me already,” Crutchie said. He took Jack’s hand in both of his own. “For real, Jack. Everythin’ good?”

Jack let Crutchie’s hand go. He thought for a moment. “For real? I don’t know. Did Kath—” Had she told them?

“Yeah,” Crutchie said softly. He reached up and poked Grace gently in the ribs. She giggled and squirmed.

Jack smiled in spite of himself. “We got some things to figure out.”

“We got your back, Jackie. All of us. It’ll be okay.” Crutchie reached for his crutch and swung his legs onto the floor. He braced himself and stood, looking back at Jack with his warm brown eyes. “A guy what has friends can’t be a failure.”

The hair on Jack’s arms stood up.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Yeah.”

And just then, looking at Crutchie, he knew that it was true. Dark moments would come; money would be tight; he wouldn’t always be able to give his family the things that they wanted most. But he _had_ a family—and that family was bigger than just Katherine, Michael, and Grace. He knew, really knew, he could trust his family to carry him in the moments when his load was too heavy. He just had to let them. Jack knew that it would take him time, but he would learn the lesson Mo had tried so hard to teach. 

“Da!” Michael called from the other room, snapping Jack out of his reverie. “C’ _mere_!”

“Cwist-mus, Da!” Gracie whispered.

“Yeah, darlin’, it’s Christmas. And our whole family is here. Ain’t we lucky?” The three of them went out of the bedroom.

The other room was cheerful chaos. Race and Spot were on the floor with Michael, Spot leaning back against Race’s chest, and Michael dragging his train under a tunnel formed by Race’s bent knee. Davey and Katherine were at the stove, trying to clean up an explosion of coffee grounds that had oozed over the top of the percolator and onto the iron grating.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Katherine asked, screwing up her mouth in confusion.

“How do you _not_ know how to make coffee?” Davey asked with a laugh.

Katherine started to respond, but her attention was snapped away as she saw Michael’s locomotive start to motor over Race’s shoe. “Mikey, trains don’t drive on people!”

Race winked at the little boy, “You can drive on your Uncle _Spot_ if you want, Mike.” Spot scoffed.

“Davey, let me help you with the coffee,” Crutchie said. He clapped Jack on the back before he went to the stove.

“Mama!” called Gracie. “I foun’ Da. Hidin’.”

Katherine looked over at her husband and daughter, and Jack thrilled to see her smile. She left Davey and Crutchie to the coffee grounds mess and moved across the room. Jack held out his free arm and pulled her against him. He wasn’t sure anything had ever felt so good as having both his girls in his arms—and knowing they were there to stay.

“I love you, Jack,” Katherine said. She tucked an arm behind his back and nestled into his chest. “No matter what—no matter how hard things might be, that won’t ever change.”

“I love you too, Kath,” Jack said. He squeezed her tight and looked around the room. Race had the locomotive in his hands and was driving it up and down Spot’s chest while Michael clapped; Crutchie was laughing as Davey tried miserably to get the brown coffee muck off of his hands. They were ridiculous, and Jack wouldn’t have them any other way. “You know, we’ve got some pretty great folks here.”

She nodded. “We do. And you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because of you,” she said, kissing the curve of his jaw. “All of them are here because of you, love.”

Jack shook his head. “Nah. I’m here because of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to any and all who have left kudos or feedback. I'm very glad that the folks who were reading this seemed to like it so much. Let me know what you thought about the ending!
> 
> Side note: I have never, ever finished a story. Not ever. Granted, I also haven't written in a good long time, but I'm super excited to start this year by accomplishing something I never have before. If you've left any love. you're a big reason why I was able to do it. This might be a random little fic, but it represents something bigger to me. So, thanks. :-)

**Author's Note:**

> A little feedback would fill me with Christmas cheer! I'm going to attempt to get this all done before the season ends, so stick with me and please let me know what you think. :-)


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